


a game of bat and mouse

by monday_excarnate (Ellicit)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Being Hunted, Blood Drinking, Blood Loss, Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/F, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Grinding, Lesbian Vampires, Master/Pet, Non-binary Lesbians, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, POV Second Person, Pet Play, Some Anatomy Intentionally Left Vague, Tentacle Dick, Vampire Bites, Vampire Sex, Vampires, and you would be consenting enthusiastically if you'd just been asked, but instead this dumbass tried to kill you, can you tell i'm tagging by the seat of my pants, minor breathplay, moderately pretentious formatting, so now it's dubcon, weirdly sexy metaphors undercut by dumb jokes, you are a horny college student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22223824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellicit/pseuds/monday_excarnate
Summary: "Hello, little mouse," they purr, and you see the flash of their fangs. "Did you have fun?"You swallow, unsure of how to respond. You want to run, to fight, to anything, but your body refuses to move. You can't pull your eyes away from them.They trail a cold hand down your cheek. "I've waited weeks for someone I liked enough to want inside me."You can't prevent a whimper from escaping you, a soft, quiet ghost of the scream building in the back of your skull.  Their smile is a sharp red slash across their face. And you...Gods help you, you still want to kiss them.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Reader, Original Female Character(s)/Original Non-Binary Character(s), Original Female Character(s)/Original Non-Human Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 149





	a game of bat and mouse

**Author's Note:**

> This is deeply self-indulgent and I refuse to be sorry.
> 
> thanks to all the lovely people who read this in its very first version (especially Nausicaa_E, Official Beta); i'm sorry, but i'm keeping the soviet russia joke. stay tuned for 2.0, in which this maybe becomes a twine game with at least one branching path and the parentheticals actually make sense, let me know if i need to add more tags, and have fun!

It’s not exactly chance that puts you in the position of needing to leave the official end-of-term departmental dinner a little earlier than most. Call it an easily unpredicted combination of inevitabilities: the feedback from the microphone setting your nerves on edge, the speeches vacillating between entertaining and trite as everyone tries to put on their best faces for the various prestigious alumni, and the little secret you’d brought to avoid boredom becoming more of a distraction than you’d planned for. (You’re not quite as subtle as you think you are, you know.)

You get a few almost-concerned friendly acquaintances asking if you’re alright to walk home. You brush them off with reassurances; for one, you generally don’t drink. And sure, you've seen the horror movies, read the novels and news stories. (It shows in your walk, your laugh, the pins on your bag.) You like to think of yourself as genre-savvy. (That, darling mouse, requires knowing what genre one is in.) But for all that, you still think nothing of walking back across campus alone in the dark. You've done it so many times before, after all; you know this campus like your childhood backyard, or park, or whatever green space you turned into your own private forest-jungle-faerieland.

So you step out of the warm, lit press of humanity and into the fog, still turning back to toss farewells and promises of see-you-soon as lightly into the air as flower petals falling from trees, impossible to catch.

The fog works its usual magic. You let your eyes unfocus just for a moment as you walk, and the streetlamps become fey trees, the trees columns for a faerie palace. The sidewalk becomes a path made of silver.

Are those footsteps you hear behind you?

(Yes, but you don’t want to believe it.)

You begin humming this week's latest meme song, a thread of laughter against the crawling dark, and twirl, as though too delighted with life to walk a straight line.

There's no one behind you. You don't know why you thought there was. Just the prickle on the back of your neck, just the pounding of your heart beginning to fill your ears. 

Maybe you won't go right back to your dorm. (Someone could follow you home, could slip through the door behind you.) It's cold out here, and the fog is making you imagine things more than usual. You could cut through the old auditorium -- the orchestra is moving instruments all weekend, and you heard from one of your friends that the hallway between the stage and the basement levels of the academic building behind it is being left unlocked. Or, if you go just a little bit farther, the library connects to the chemistry and physics departments. You could spend some time in the stacks and stay indoors for the rest of the walk back. Coyotes live in the west hills; maybe this one got lost roaming too far afield, and while you know they're no danger to you, they deserve their space.

Another footfall. A flicker in the corner of your eye.

No one behind you.

At least, no one you can see.

You bolt for the auditorium.

Sometimes they lock the outer doors early, but tonight you're lucky. You slip inside the lobby, then the lecture hall itself; down the stairs past rows of seats to the hallway door, heart pounding louder than your footsteps. (Do you notice that your footsteps are echoed by more than just the linoleum, little mouse?) Down the hallway, ever so softly, though if someone asked you couldn’t say why you’re so certain that the precaution is warranted. Maybe it’s the movement of the shadows as you glance up at the ceiling. Maybe it’s the creak of a door after you pass by -- was that open before? You’re not sure. You’re starting to doubt your senses. Or not doubt them, perhaps; deny them, because you don’t want to believe that you might not be perfectly safe.

Past the darkrooms, past empty classrooms, up the stairs, up the stairs, open the door as quietly as you can, close it just as softly, there's a light down the hall, maybe one of the theater professors or office staff is working late. You don't look behind you, not yet. Not when however many millennia of evolutionary instincts are telling you that what's hunting you isn't yet nearly as important as the fact that you are being hunted.

Something is hunting you.

You make for the light at the end of the hall -- no, you have to turn, too many of the walls in this building are made of glass. Still, it’s as good a goal as any, and you practically sprint through the maze of dividers, doubling back on your path, sure that at any minute you’ll collide with either whatever’s chasing you or another human to make your fears something laughable. 

Another dead end. Who designed this ridiculous transparent labyrinth? Heart pounding, you backtrack again. You’re practically sprinting now, not an easy task in your formal dress and various accessories. You hear a scrape against glass that might have been you but seems just a bit too far away; your panicked focus narrows until all you can see is the dim glow swinging back and forth in front of you as your path twists and turns, slowly growing closer. Light means safety in numbers, light means finding solutions, light means facing your fears without the shitass nightvision of a screen-using diurnal plains ape--

There's no one in the office. Just a forgotten desk lamp, and a soft thump behind you, and the slow coldness of realizing that you've trapped yourself.

You turn.

Their face is familiar, you realize, despite the feral hunger twisting their features. You remember them from the party: a wry, mostly quiet presence holding a mug ("Zero Fox Given," it read, and why is that detail now so clear in your mind?) that never really seemed to get emptier. You remember laughing until you almost cried at something they said (what had it been?). You remember a moment where your eyes locked with theirs and you had to look away lest you forget yourself and kiss them.

You don't remember their name, though you're sure they told you. A night's sleep, and you might have forgotten them entirely.

"Hello, little mouse," they purr, and you see the flash of their fangs. "Did you have fun?"

You swallow, unsure of how to respond. You want to run, to fight, to anything, but your body refuses to move. You can't pull your eyes away from them.

They trail a cold hand down your cheek. "I've waited weeks for someone I liked enough to want inside me." 

You can't prevent a whimper from escaping you, a soft, quiet ghost of the scream building in the back of your skull. Their smile is a sharp red slash across their face. And you...

Gods help you, you still want to kiss them.

(In your fantasies you were never this scared of dying. In your reality you never quite realized how little that would matter.)

Their whisper brushes against your ear. It carries with it the faint scents of copper and cinnamon, rust and mint. "Poor little mouse. Any last words, since you've been so good?"

Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter closed.

You surrender.

"Yes. Please."

They pause. You can feel the points of their fangs against your jugular. You can feel them shaking with the effort of self-control. You can feel their deep, utter confusion.

" _Please,_ " you repeat, the word becoming a frustrated moan as heat pools inside you and the concept of any other spoken language waves goodbye to your mind.

"You... You want this." Their lips brush your neck in a parody of a kiss, and you gasp as their tongue flicks out to catch the drops of blood beading from the pinprick wounds they've left. Adrenaline rushes through you as their moan drops into a growl, but they push themself just barely away, pinning your shoulders to the wall. "You _want_ this."

You need to breathe slower. You can't breathe slower, not when they're looking at you like you're an oxygen tank in a hull-ruptured spacecraft or a freshwater lake in the middle of the desert, not when you can see the entirely different kind of hunger creeping into their eyes. "Y...yes."

Their nails dig into your upper arms. Their smile is so wide you think you might be able to see every one of their unsettlingly pointed teeth. "I could _keep_ you," they hiss (if you can call something so delighted, with so few sibilants in it, a hiss). "I could take you home and by the time I brought you back again you wouldn't want to leave."

Your legs, already shaking, fail you. You slide down the wall, and they let you, watching curiously (curiosity! a force more able to hold a predator back than fear!) as you land on your hands and knees, as you push yourself back on your heels.

Wordlessly, you offer them your wrists.

Do their fangs lengthen, or is that a trick of the light? They freeze for a moment. And then -- they move between blinks, in the space between frames -- pain, hot and sweet, erupts in your right wrist. Some kind of noise escapes you as you feel their tongue brushing over your wrist again and again, sending a tangle of lightning further and further up towards your heart, and when it reaches your chest your head tilts back and your entire body goes limp.

They catch you. More gently than they have a right to, they catch you and cradle you in their lap, your wrist still pressed to their mouth. The burning tingle spreads from your heart to the rest of your body. You're dizzy from the adrenaline, lightheaded from blood loss and from proximity to an attractive person who _just so happens to be a vampire_ ; you feel like you're dying, and you've never felt more alive. You try to move an arm, and you can't. You will your hips to move, your legs to curl around them, and nothing happens. You try to speak, and all that passes your lips is a pitiful whine.

It's enough to get their attention. Their face twists with effort, and they let your wrist fall from their mouth as their other hand tangles itself in your hair. Roughly, they pull your head up and into a kiss filled with salt and iron.

(You never expected to find yourself turned on by the taste of your own blood.)

"I want you." The sandpaper texture of their voice sends shivers down your spine. "I want all of you. I want--" They pause, looking down. "This carpet is disgusting," they mutter. And then, as suddenly as the strike of a match, a smirk containing all the fires of hell appears on their face. "But I know where there's a better one."

You still can't speak, but you manage to move your fingers as they stand and lift you up despite the minimal difference in your heights with all the effort a human would take to lift a pillow. Your head rests against their shoulder; without your conscious direction, your still-burning body presses closer and drinks in the cold emanating from theirs. Hazily, you watch the signs and doors float past as they carry you up the central staircase and down the hall: Alumni, Student Accounts, Registrar... Office of the President. 

The reception area door opens easily. They set you down in front of the inner door; a brief distortion appears around them, and when you blink, there's nothing but a mist floating through the cracks and into the locked room. Before you truly have time to comprehend this, the lock clicks and the door swings open. Behind it stands the vampire, a wicked grin once again tugging firmly at their lips. You push yourself half off the floor just in time for them to slide an arm under your back, the other under your knees, and whirl you off the ground and around into the room. The thick curtains are already drawn. They don't bother to be particularly careful as they deposit you on the central rug and flick on the lamp perched on one corner of the heavy wooden desk.

"That used to be mine, you know," they say, nodding in the direction of the rug underneath you. It's shockingly thick for something with such a complicated design, all blues and purples and trailing vines, with a softness that seems like it comes as much from age as from the material. "Had to pawn it once upon a time, and then _this_ bastard--" gesturing vaguely at the office as though indicting it for the crimes of its daylight occupant-- "bought it for 30 grand at auction just as I was about to steal it back." Their voice drops once again from a casual if salty contralto to a growl that sends a bolt of arousal through your core. "So you can see why I'm looking forward to making you fall apart on top of it."

Your legs are still refusing to really obey you, but you swallow, and find your voice. "I'm yours."

" _Good._ " Their eyes darken with possessive lust. A hand tangles in your hair and pulls you roughly up and forwards. For a moment you're sure you can't move, can't do anything about the blinding pain across your scalp, and then you blink the tears from your eyes and find that you've ended up on your knees, fingers digging into the carpet on one hand and clutching their calf on the other. They lean against the desk. One hand is still buried in your hair; with the other, they begin unbuckling their belt. "I'm not done playing with my food."

You can feel your face go hot. The realization that you are about to be fucked, almost but not quite of your own volition, in the office of a top school administrator begins to drip down your spinal cord like slightly-too-warm massage oil. Your limbs are still clumsy, but you fumble with the waistband of their tight black jeans until you succeed in pulling them down to the vampire's knees. They make a small, pleased noise and close their eyes for just a moment with a sigh.

 _You could run now,_ the small voice of blind self-preservation in the back of your head whispers. But you don't. Running, if you even could with your current lack of gross motor control, would mean ripping out a significant chunk of hair only to in all likelihood be hunted down once more. And you doubt the creature in front of you would be as patient and willing to exercise self-control the second time. And all of that is a thin veneer of justification over the truth, which is that you don’t want to.

Another tug on your hair, and you push yourself up as best you can until your mouth is less than a handsbreadth away from what you're sure is its inevitable destination. You slide your hands up, briefly wrapping around the vampire's hips, and look up. They nod, their breath catching, need written across their face. You find yourself uncertain of what you're going to find when you slide their black silky underwear down; and indeed, the sight you're greeted with isn't quite like any other partner you've had. No extraneous flesh surrounds the slit from which slick fluid is beginning to drip, but the far stranger thing -- the thing you can't pull your eyes away from -- is the clear, if gentle writhing of something beneath their skin.

You lick your lips, almost unconsciously catching the lower between your teeth, and they smirk. "How does that joke go?" they ask, softly, rhetorically. "'In Soviet Russia, food eats you?' I think I'm going to have to take some precautions, first."

One hand still holds their belt. They lean over you, pressing your mouth against them even as they pull your arms behind your back, wrap the belt around your arms and cinch it tight, weaving the tail end through to hold it in place. Instinctively you test it; it holds firm against your tug, and the sudden wave of helplessness that washes through you makes you shiver. You hardly need the encouragement of their hand returning to your hair to fall forward with them as they brace themself against the desk again. You need to taste them.

You open your mouth and lick their slit once, slowly, and are rewarded with a moan and the pressure of their hand against the back of your head. An entirely unexpected sweetness blooms on your tongue. You lick again, and again, filling your mouth with the flavor of slightly too-ripe grapes, of juice on the verge of becoming wine; you dip your tongue into the dripping crevice and suck on the skin around it, and in a moment of daring, tug gently with your teeth. You hear them gasp, and their hips thrust up into your mouth. The slow undulation under their skin feels more prominent against your lips. Your next stroke finds a nub of flesh that you could have sworn hadn't been there a moment before; you circle it with your tongue before wrapping your lips around it and sucking firmly, and the vampire hisses with pleasure. Their fingers, which had loosened, clench tightly against your scalp once more. You keep sucking as they tug and push your head, fucking your mouth. The tension between your legs overwhelms you, and you spread your legs and press forward, glancing up at them.

Their eyes are wide, pupils blown out with desire and pleasure, but they still notice your movement and pause for a moment. A soft, breathy chuckle escapes them. "You want more, little mouse?" They shift ever so slightly, and something presses between your legs; you push against it with a pathetically grateful whimper even as, with a shock that tingles down your spine, you realize that it's their boot. "It's a little humiliating, sure, but if you're really that turned on, it must be better than nothing."

They're correct. You nod, blushing, and they pull you back to your task even as you rock your hips into their foot and relief floods through you. You feel the already-damp fabric of your panties slide easily against your overheated skin. A moan begins, low in your throat, and it makes them shiver and press you against them just the tiniest bit harder.

You realize suddenly that what you've been thinking of, more or less, as their clit is now filling far more of your mouth. Nor is it merely stiffening: in fact, the whole length so far seems rather flexible, twining around itself and your tongue even as the vampire continues to move their hips.

The puzzle pieces click into place, and you swallow in surprise and sudden desire, pulling the tentacle towards the back of your throat. It fills your mouth entirely and then some; the writhing tip, which had been exploring the roof of your mouth, takes the opportunity to push gently into your esophagus. The sensation is altogether different from any of your prior experiences. Rather than a harsh intrusion of the kind guaranteed to make you gag, the tentacle conforms precisely to the curves and twists of your throat, so that you feel a completely novel _fullness_ around which you swallow convulsively but with no hint of nausea -- and then it _pulses_ , pressing against your windpipe from the inside and putting a rhythmic stutter in the already-thin flow of air reaching your lungs. You whimper, a choked vibration that doesn't quite reach the outside world, and the vampire groans and bucks underneath you in clear encouragement. 

You have never felt more used. You have never felt more alight with lust. You focus on breathing around the steadily-increasing movement in your throat, on the searing mix of pleasure with a hint of pain that crackles through you every time you rock against their boot, on the low keening from the being whose hands and feet and cock have become your universe. Every part of your posture, from the still-firm grip on your hair to the way the belt around your arms pulls your shoulders back and thrusts your chest forward to the carpet digging into your knees, seems exquisitely designed to reinforce how thoroughly taken you are. You find yourself uttering choked whimpers again and again as the writhing in your throat sends shiver after shiver down your spine. Every tiny sensation feels magnified, crashing against each other in a wave that builds and builds until you're certain that at any moment it will curl over you--

\--and the vampire standing over you throws their head back and stiffens as though electrified; thrusts once, twice more; collapses, almost bonelessly, against the desk in a motion that pulls their leg away from you and their slick organ halfway out of your throat. Your desperate pelvis connects with nothing but air. Tears well up in your eyes as your arousal loses its edge, draining away from your throbbing clit and into your bones.

They shudder once, and with a deep breath, finish pulling out of you. You feel uncomfortably hollow -- incomplete in a way that scarcely makes sense. Then their eyes open. Their gaze rakes over your shaking frame, and they lick their lips.

"Save your tears for later, my mouse," they whisper. Gently, they run their fingers down your jaw and cup your chin firmly, holding your face still as they lean forward and trace the single trail of salt water that's escaped with the very tip of their tongue. "I'm not even close to done with you yet."

You sit back on your heels with a thump, knees spread, lips still parted. Any words that might have formed in response are lost in the overwhelming heartbeat of desire flooding your mind. 

They push themself off the desk; pull their pants up, not bothering to fasten the waist; and saunter around behind you, hips swaying. You gasp in relief as the belt suddenly loosens, allowing your shoulders to slump forward. They trail their fingers down the back of your neck and over your tense muscles. You find yourself pathetically grateful for the moment of relaxation, though it is in the end only the span of a few breaths before they circle around you once again, toss their belt to the side, and push you sideways to the floor. Your arms tingle as you barely manage to catch yourself before your cheek slams into the rug. You look up, and see them pulling their tie away from their neck in a single smooth motion. They crouch next to you and grip your shoulder, forcing you onto your back.

Three quick movements, and they have your hands pinned to either side of one leg of the desk while they wrap their tie around them. You feel but can't see them cinch down the knot to secure your wrists, and you squirm, desperate for anything that might relieve the burning ache between your legs.

They notice, and laugh darkly. "You like it rough, don't you? I've done nothing but use you to satisfy myself, and still your body is begging me for more." Despite the chill of their touch, their breath feels almost warm on your skin as they lean over you. A bite, a sharp twist of their head, and their fangs part the fabric of your shirt. With one rip they expose your entire chest. You shiver. They giggle softly, and bend to trace the outline of one of your nipples with their mouth.

And then they flick with the tip of their tongue and your entire back arches and you whimper, unable to stop your hips from thrusting into the air.

"So needy," they whisper. "Like an animal in heat. Is that what you are, mouse?" Their cheek presses against yours; their breath caresses the shell of your ear; one of their hands tangles in your hair and pulls back roughly and you gasp and their other thumb brushes your nipple again and again, each stroke robbing you of a little more of your ability to think rationally. "You're not my prey any more, not exactly. Does that make you my pet?"

The word "pet" hits you like a bolt of lightning, and you can't help but fold in on yourself with a moan -- or try, rather, as your wrists remain tightly affixed to the desk leg, the silk digging gently into your skin when you pull. The vampire laughs softly.

"Silly me." They sit back just far enough to nudge your knees apart, reach under your skirt, and let their palm rest between your legs. "I forgot pets don't talk." They hum gently, looking you up and down even as you grind into their hand with a motion that lets you feel exactly how much of a dripping mess you are. "Pets don't wear clothes, either, so let's take care of that." Their hands trace a circle around your waist until they find and pop open the button of your skirt; they pull it and your panties down with a single swift tug. Your face flushes in embarrassment as they look down and raise an eyebrow, brushing their fingertips against the base of the plug buried in your ass.

"Oh, my," they purr as they twist the plug ever so gently inside you, testing whether it moves easily. "Making you fall apart is going to be _easy_." The plug catches ever so slightly; you wince, and their voice deepens. "I'm going to take every part of you."

Your lips part; whether to plead or protest doesn't matter, as anything you might have said is cut short when they slide their fingers into your mouth. They taste like blood, salt, a hint of soap; the chill of their skin reminds you of winter nights biting into the back of your throat. Instinctively you wrap your tongue around their fingers and suck, and their eyes slip closed as they let out a quiet breath. "You're so warm," they whisper. Another finger joins the two already in your mouth, pulling in and out, probing, exploring, fucking. Their eyes snap open and lock with yours. "You're so warm, and I'm going to drink every last bit of that."

Ever so slowly, they pull their fingers from your mouth and stand. Through the haze of lust clouding your perception you notice the rigidity of their posture as they go to the desk and open the top drawer, as though moving away from you is physically painful. They take a bottle from the drawer; the label is dense with text, but you catch the words "organic" and "lotion" printed prominently on the side.

You blink, and they're between your legs again. The lotion is cold against your skin, and you squirm as they rub around the base of the plug, tenderly probing and stretching the tight ring of muscle. The chill of their fingers makes you tense up at first; you force yourself to relax, and find that the cold instead sucks the sting from the stretch as they pull gently on the plug, so that you feel yourself expanding slowly, so slowly, around it. More lotion -- your nipples are taut peaks in your peripheral vision -- and they let go. Then pull. Again and again, until the plug is halfway out on each draw and every thrust back in makes you twitch, and a dull-then-suddenly-sharp ache in your wrists forces you to realize that you've been pulling against your bonds, mindless in your desperation to touch yourself, and at last the plug slides free entirely and is replaced with their lotion-slicked fingers.

You'd thought the lotion was cold, but this new intrusion is a bolt of ice to your core, and you arch your back, gasping desperately as they twist their fingers against each other, stretching you in ways your body isn't yet used to. Just as you think you're about to be able to relax into the sensation, they add a third finger. A series of whimpers bubbles up from deep inside you. You rock against them. You don't think you could stop yourself if you wanted to. With their left hand, they gently stroke your clit, and you nearly scream at the maddening sensation that nevertheless sends a white-hot trail of pleasure through your nerves with every motion. You can feel your mind fracturing, narrowing down to nothing but the electricity coursing through you and the sight of their wickedly pleased smirk. They rub your clit just a bit harder and the pleasure jumps, climbs, higher and higher until you feel yourself almost but not quite on the brink of a precipice and this, of course, is when they slow their hands, leaving you once hanging over a vast chasm, tears running down your cheeks.

 _Please,_ you mouth silently, the phrase "pets don't speak" echoing through your brain. _Please, please, more, please, I need_ : a ritual litany, the only words left to your mind, even these last few scraps of language denied your voice. You catch their gaze. They raise a cold, cruel eyebrow, apparently unimpressed by the way your eyes widen and your hips thrust forward as you beg silently.

"Not yet," they tell you, their hands beginning to move faster once again, urging you inexorably towards the peak once again. "I want you absolutely broken before I take you."

Their mouth closes around your clit, and you choke back a sob. Your head tips back; your eyes flutter closed; you feel as though you're holding on to sanity by the thinnest of wires, down which the very sensation driving you out of your mind and into your body is flowing. They bring you to the edge again, and again, until at last your muscles are too tired to do any more than hold you rigid, locked in place, wanting more and unable to ask for it.

And then they pull their fingers out of you and you take a shuddery breath that turns into a low, continuous, needy whine. "There," they whisper. "Perfectly seasoned." And something else presses against your entrance, the very thing you would have been begging for had you been able.

The slow writhing sensation of their cock splitting you open, the tip wrapping around itself and hitting all your most sensitive spots, fucks the last shreds of thought from you; you become a thing of pure perception, sensation, need, a toy to be used. Their moan turns into a low growl. Their left thumb pushes between your lips. You suck on it mindlessly as they wrench your head to the side and you open wider and wider underneath them and their teeth sink into your neck.

They shudder in pure pleasure, and a nameless emotion wells up inside of you. They pull away just long enough to whisper "so warm" against your neck.

Your body reaches the edge and holds itself there. Moments ago you would have been trying to cum like there was nothing else in the world; now, instead, you find yourself floating in the dark expanse, filled in multiple ways, filling the one inside you in a way you'd thought you'd only ever dream of, needed, used up, drifting away.

distantly, you sense the being on top of you writhe in ecstasy as your breathing slows and deepens.

distantly, you feel yourself being lifted.

from the world above the surface you hear a soft "sleep well, pet. see you soon."

and then

you

go.

END

(well. almost.)

(you wake slowly, with a languorous stretch, and then shiver. your eyes snap open as memory comes flooding back. trembling, your hands explore your body, and find it completely naked save for a collar, locked and chained securely to the frame of the canopy bed on which you're lying.

through a crack in the curtains you see the first rays of dawn. the smell of food hits your nose, and you look over to see a large, hot breakfast and a note sitting on the nightstand.

you pick up the note.

 _My darling pet,_ it reads,

_Eat well. Recover. Read, if you like. Sleep. I'll see you at sundown to explain the new rules of your world. Love, your master._

a frisson of something -- delight? -- ascends your spine. your eyes fall on a bookshelf within your reach, and you walk on shaky legs to explore it. a few minutes is enough for you to ascertain that the contents lean heavily on the erotic side. many of the books are leatherbound and -- you laugh as you realize -- written in the same sweeping hand as the note.

if this is a dream, you decide, you're not going to try to wake up.)

**Author's Note:**

> the campus in this work is No College In Particular, but is based loosely on a combination of two to three pdx institutions, which is why any attempt to map it based on the details given here will likely be nonsensical and possibly non-euclidean. 
> 
> the 30k rug, i have been assured, is a venerable figure in reed college folklore.


End file.
